Don't Go Stealing My Heart - Kelly Siskind Page 0,68
us somethin’ we don’t know.”
“Okay—he’s not interested. He said he’s too busy for a relationship.” The latter statement may have been a lie, but the ache in her heart was as real as real got.
Tami’s reply: “So just bang him.”
Imelda’s: “Do it for us.”
Clementine snorted. These ladies really were good fun…until they flanked either side of her, linked their elbows with hers, and dragged Clementine toward the stage.
She tried to slam on the brakes without causing a scene. “Seriously, he doesn’t want me there.”
Tami yanked her forward. “That sinfully sexy man has a stick stuck up his fine behind. He works too much and needs to have fun. It’s practically a prescription. Any doctor would tell him as much.”
“He wants you as much as you want him,” Imelda said. “His eyes devour you whenever he’s in spitting distance. He’ll come around.”
They didn’t understand. How could they? But Clementine wasn’t strong enough to resist their meddling. They led her through the crowd, jostling elbows and shoulders, persistent as ants on the march. The music got louder, the stage nearer. Sweat migrated to Clementine’s armpits and brow. People sat in rows of lawn chairs, tapping their toes and singing along. A kid was on stage, dressed as a young Elvis, wearing a shiny red shirt and patent leather shoes. His voice was astounding. If she weren’t a moment from hyperventilating, she’d enjoy the show.
They stopped at the side of the crowd, close enough to the stage that Jack might see her, and Imelda released her right elbow.
Tami didn’t budge. “He’ll be on in a sec,” she whisper-yelled in Clementine’s ear. “He always sings an upbeat number for the openin’ show. Lots of hip action.”
Clementine might instantaneously combust.
The young Elvis belted out his last chorus. The girls jigged to the beat, while Clementine turned perspiring into an Olympic sport. When the music ended and the audience erupted, she just about passed out. For a woman who’d spent over a decade evading authorities and invading homes, she should’ve been impervious to a case of sweaty nerves. She was out of her depth.
Jack sauntered on stage.
Elvis Jack. Bold Jack. Good with his hands Jack.
She whimpered.
Tami tipped her head back and cackled. “You have it so bad.”
She was an absolute goner.
Jack’s swagger was all class. He wore the same costume as the night he’d sung for her in his shelter: black slacks and shirt, slim tie, gold dinner jacket. He’d chosen “Can’t Help Falling in Love” that night. If they were in his shelter now, just the two of them alone, would he sing “Heartbreak Hotel” or “Love me Tender”?
The band struck up the opening notes to “All Shook Up,” and the crowd went wild. Imelda whooped. Tami whistled on her fingers, finally releasing Clementine so she could shimmy and shake. Exactly what Clementine wanted to do. What she should do.
She was an independent woman for the first time in her life. Every day would be as exciting or boring as she made it.
Determined to forget her neurosis from moments ago and stop worrying about Jack’s decision, she closed her eyes and moved. Heels, knees, shoulders—she tapped and bopped. Her mind and body gradually loosened. She wouldn’t be cast in Dancing with the Stars, but with Jack’s voice dipping and diving around the funky beats, the moves felt effortless, as long as she kept her eyes closed. If he spotted her and frowned or glared, she wasn’t sure what she’d do.
20
The drum beat throbbed in Jack’s veins, each pulse moving his limbs as if by rote. He performed as always, smiling and living it up for the crowd, but the growl in his voice had dimmed. The joy of the stage felt muted. His father’s absence was partly to blame, as was the fact that his lens research had taken a step back today, not forward as he’d planned. His life was far from easy, but the depths of his funk had a more specific source: he missed Clementine.
Theirs hadn’t been a long affair. Not much of an affair at all, physically. And her deceit had cut. He’d nursed his resentment these past few days, but the missing had never faded. If anything, it had magnified, like a guitar plugged into an amplifier growing into an echo that reverberated through him. Move on, he’d told himself. A woman with her complications is only trouble. She’s just like Ava.
But she wasn’t. Deep down, he knew it, and he couldn’t let go.